


when in rome

by nairwal



Series: Commissions [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Rome, Aphrodisiacs, Awkward Boners, Bath Houses, Bathing/Washing, Blame the oysters, Canon Compliant, Food, M/M, Nudity, Scene: Rome 41 AD (Good Omens), Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24169663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nairwal/pseuds/nairwal
Summary: Curse the Romans for declaring oysters a loving creation of the goddess Venus, an aphrodisiac, for Heaven’s sake, for making them taste oh-so good, and for—well,everything!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Commissions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744447
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	when in rome

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission for Tumblr user @g0000pie, who gave me permission to publish! If you're interested in commissioning me for any written work, please check out these links: [Tumblr](https://goomens.tumblr.com) | [Commission Info/Prices](https://goomens.tumblr.com/post/617027819411849216/my-ko-fi-is-up-and-running-and-commissions-are-now?is_related_post=1) | [Fandom List](https://goomens.tumblr.com/post/617178196762296320/fandom-list-for-commissions-i-can-write-for) | [Ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/nairwal)
> 
> Thank you to my lovely [Karen](https://cutesiewoojin.tumblr.com) for the beta.

In the end, Aziraphale does, somewhat, manage to tempt Crowley into expanding his palate. Which has, as it turns out, been particularly limited up until this point. It’s quite a shame. The simple pleasures in life consist most certainly and almost entirely of food. Aziraphale knows this for certain. Crowley may take some convincing, yet.

But, nevertheless, the two are here now, in Rome, 41A.D., and Aziraphale is slurping down—at quite an alarming rate, mind you—bowl after bowl of Mediterranean oysters. They are scrumptious. Many of them have been divided based on flavour. Recipes differ all across Europe as is, and, here, Aziraphale is greeted with a sight set to make any man or Angel (or Demon, even) a bubbling mess: valleyed bowls and saucers decorated with the dark oyster shells, off-white creams, oils, and amber pools of vinegar that shimmer where they meet the rays of the mid-afternoon sunlight.

Some of the oysters are salty on Aziraphale’s tongue, sliding down his throat in a biting chill while others taste sweet and rich, like ripened fruit, syrupy with its own sugars. Warm and delectable, as anticipated.

It’s somewhere around Aziraphale’s sixteenth or seventeenth oyster that he sits back against the stone pillar behind him, the low table littered with dirtied crockery, and realises, with a jolt, that he is harbouring a foreign, heavy sensation low in his abdomen. Though—it’s not at all unpleasant… Like an itch that has long awaited a scratch. Like a distracting pull. The covet to touch is there and his fingers flex on their own accord where they rest on his thigh. All Aziraphale would have to do is reach down and…

“Angel.”

Stiffening his shoulders as though caught in some lewd, perverse act—and, really, Aziraphale would _never_ —he looks up, meets Crowley’s eyes (his tiny spectacles, really) and blinks innocently. The heat is still there, simmering shallowly beneath his skin, difficult to ignore and persistent like it loathes to be ignored.

“Yes, Craw—Crowley?”

The Demon only dips his head forward, down an inch, and when Aziraphale catches wind of his meaning, that is, that he has noticed the frankly embarrassing reaction of Aziraphale’s corporeal form to today’s oysters. He feels his skin burn with it. Curse the Romans for declaring oysters a loving creation of the goddess Venus, an aphrodisiac, for Heaven’s sake, for making them taste oh-so good, and for—well, _everything_! Blooming Roman’s!

Aziraphale waves away Crowley’s silent enquiry. Even though it is crumpled at the thighs, the bulge in his toga is clear as day. This is all quite unfortunate. And far more mortifying than he is willing to articulate. “Dear me. Er. It’s—nothing at all.” Aziraphale falters, glancing around awkwardly before he sulks. “The oysters. Wretched aphrodisiac.”

“It’s not so bad,” Crowley is saying over the mild hum of conversation around them. His silver laurel wreath shines like a halo around his head. “No-one’s looking.”

Aziraphale feels the blush on his face like it’s a wildfire.

“If it’s… irritating you, there’s a bathhouse on the south-side. We could go there instead. It’ll be closed off for the night, but—that doesn’t apply to us, of course.” Crowley looks thoughtful. Aziraphale thinks, currently, that anything is better than being surrounded by strangers like this. He quickly agrees and they walk shoulder-to-shoulder through the ambling crowd.

The bathhouse is truly exquisite. The space is expansive, lined with thick, marble columns and boasting a ceiling that seems to go on forever; a rectangular pool in the centre of the room is full of still water tinted blue from the coloured stonework. Lit by the clinging sun that glows orange just beyond the narrow openings in the walls, the intricate mosaic walls gleam in hues of blues and greens. The sunset outside must be breath-taking.

“Well?” Crowley murmurs at Aziraphale’s shoulder. There is a hint of mischief in his voice and Aziraphale is only mildly worried that he is being tempted. “Fancy a dip?”

The water _does_ look nice. Inviting, clear, and heated by a functional boiler somewhere out of sight. The caldarium room is warm with it, the heat, and the marbled floor underfoot is dewy. A soak would be pleasant. Aziraphale should think twice about being so swayed by a Demon. It would be the right thing to do. The decent thing.

Aziraphale’s footwear sits forgotten as he submerges his feet in the water, finding a comfortable spot on the very edge where the carved lip of it is veiled by the fabric of his gown. Though he slips his eyes closed, he can hear the soft shuffling sounds as Crowley moves—his supple leather sandals scuffing across the floor until he, too, finds a spot to relax. Though, it does surprise Aziraphale that, when he cracks an eye open, Crowley has opted for the opposite end of the pool. They face one another, both of them steeping their feet. The pool itself isn’t _obscenely_ lengthy, so he isn’t too far out of reach; Aziraphale can still see every aspect of his face, the shadow around his mouth, his sharp jawline. The gleam of perspiration on his neck, the tanned skin where it is visible at the v-shaped dip of his robe, a bead of sweat that steadily trickles down…

Aziraphale shifts, his skin hot. The air in here is really very thick, humid, and sticky. Crowley’s eyes are closed shut behind his spectacles, and Aziraphale decides—if perhaps quite boldly—to remove his toga. With a steady hand, he unclips the fastener and sets it down onto the bath edge, sinking, slowly but surely, into the warm depths that envelop him like a sweet embrace. When the soles of his feet meet the cobbled bottom and the waterline caresses the warm skin of Aziraphale’s neck, he catches Crowley’s steady gaze. Even through the tinted lenses, still positioned high on his sharp nose, the yellow of his eyes is unmistakable. Even while those eyes are half-lidded. Aziraphale could easily mistake the look on the Demon’s face as disinterest, one of unseeing boredom, yet…

Crowley’s lips are parted, lower lip full and pink. His breathing is coming fast, his black toga masking not even a little of the quick movements of his chest. Aziraphale bends his knees and the water rushes up in waves, meeting his earlobes. It’s a distraction if anything. Crowley’s presence, sitting across from Aziraphale—who is nude, _exposed_ , the bath only half obscuring his figure and acting not as any kind of barrier between them—is as difficult to ignore as his own demanding arousal.

Crowley could very well be a shadow, nothing but a silhouette, shrouded in the shaded gaps between the rays of light cast across the surface of the water. But his eyes wander, slow and appreciative, and it sets something alight inside of Aziraphale. Something dangerous, probably, most likely, but he supposes that it’s a natural part of his life, now, as his companionship with Crowley is unchartered territory.

These thoughts, trepidations such as they are, don’t stop him from enjoying the warm water—and even the attention bestowed upon him, if he can admit it—and looks away from Crowley. He uses his hands to wet his hair. He wipes a palm across his face. It’s soothing; bathing has become another human activity that he finds himself returning to, again and again. It never seems to lose its appeal. When his hair is rightfully soaked, hanging heavy around his ears and his curls all but flattened, his chest dripping, he can finally return eyes to Crowley.

He startles. Crowley has moved closer some and, evidently during Aziraphale’s wash, removed his own toga. He stands tall, water resting at the fine, dark hair that dusts his flat abdomen. His skin is bronzed and Aziraphale wonders just how long he has been in Rome for the sun to have kissed him so. But the thought is lost as his eyes dart back upward; Crowley has taken his eyeglasses off and his eyes are—there. _Right there_ , kindled, and alive.

Perhaps today is the day for irrational decisions. Aziraphale doesn’t close the distance between them, but he backs up until his lower back meets the cold stone. Shocked, he gasps audibly, softly, and Crowley’s hand twitches where it hangs at his side. The attention is almost too much. It only adds to that hardness Aziraphale feels below, the bubbling giddiness and heat that sits in his belly. He feels light-headed with it. Still pressed against the edge, Aziraphale continues his wash. Water is cupped in the palms of his hands and brought to his face, his collarbones, where it slides down.

All the while, his eyes are firmly on Crowley’s, unwavering, who twitches again, breath coming faster and louder and harsher. His chest has coloured a beautiful red. Cheeks flushed pink, like his lips that mouth silent words, sentences, _prayers_. He about shakes where he stands in the middle of the bath and Aziraphale abruptly thinks the silence is too loud. The distance too large.

“Come over here, my dear boy,” He exhales unsteadily, leaning back as though the uncertainty of his suggestion doesn’t eat him alive.

When, finally, Crowley strides over, so painstakingly slow it seems as though time has slowed entirely, and he speaks—it’s deep, scratchy, desperate like nothing Aziraphale has ever heard before—his focus is as intense as it had been, his body firm and shoulders pulled taut, poised, but his hand trembles where it hovers cautiously between them. His hand _trembles_ and Aziraphale feels the realisation of it all swell within him, strong but feather light.

“Will—will you let me—?”

Unable to find his voice, Aziraphale only smiles and nods. He reaches out.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this piece! Again, if you're at all interested in commissioning me, the links below should tell you everything you need to know. Don't hesitate to reach out to me! :D
> 
> [Commissions Info](https://goomens.tumblr.com/post/617027819411849216/my-ko-fi-is-up-and-running-and-commissions-are-now) | [Fandom List](https://goomens.tumblr.com/post/617027819411849216/my-ko-fi-is-up-and-running-and-commissions-are-now) | [Support me on Ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/nairwal)


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